


Indecision

by ehefic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, excessive dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehefic/pseuds/ehefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Promise of Destruction, Josephine finds Cassandra mulling her thoughts on the battlements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indecision

From your perch at the highest reaches of Skyhold, you watch the sun set. It grows fat and red, swollen at the seam where it meets the horizon, its rays thrown like arms desperately seeking purchase, as if to stay its descent or to drag the Earth itself along with it. For its sour rage, its power is weak: The wind cuts into the nooks and crannies of your clothes to raise goosebumps on your skin. The shock of the cold is a relief, dousing your thoughts, but they float back to the surface all too soon.

Sitting still has never comforted you, but you have already exerted yourself past the point of exhaustion, until even Bull requested a reprieve. He suggested ale and company. You chose solitude, hoping to purge yourself of thoughts--or at least doubts. Unfortunately your extempore vigil has achieved none of its intended purposes.

You fold your arms upon a merlon and nestle your chin where they cross. You suck the frosty air in between your teeth.

"Lady Seeker?"

You turn, unfolding, reaching automatically for the sword leaned against the crenel. You abort your raised defenses when you lay eyes on Josephine.

"Lady Montilyet," you say properly. Your arm falls to your side as you turn to face her, your other hand dangling over the mountainous abyss.

She doesn't speak right away. Hesitance is unfamiliar on her: her lips parted, her eyes scanning the skyline. You wonder if nervousness has painted the pink on her cheeks, or whether it was the wind. You wonder if her cheeks are pink at all. How far and how fast have you crumbled, that you no longer believe even your own eyes?

"The Inquisitor informed us of the events at Caer Oswin," she says.

You consider her for a moment. "If you have come to comfort me," you say, your voice scraping your throat, "I assure you it is not necessary."

Josephine steps toward you, clutching her cloak shut against the wind. "How can that be true?" she asks. She frowns, perhaps confused that you would not require comfort--or perhaps confused because she believes you are lying to her, for the first time.

The second thought sobers you, and you swallow. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, too clumsy for words. More than usual. "It was... disappointing," you admit. "But life is full of disappointments. It is not the first time I discovered I had misplaced my faith."

Now that you have found the words, you regret them. Emotion clogs your throat and claws at your heart, as merciless and slow as a torture rack of old. You turn back toward the wall and notice the sun is now sunken and small, its yellow light feeble against the shadows painted on the mountains.

"Disappointment seems a strange word," Josephine says, "for such a betrayal." Her voice is so gentle; you can scarcely remember the last time someone spoke to you with such tenderness. "I understand if you do not wish to discuss it, but... I would be remiss to leave you unattended."

You stare at your gloves and realize you have clasped your hands together. When you open them, they are empty. You admit, to her and to yourself: "Your company would be... quite welcome, Lady Montilyet."

She places her arms on the merlon beside you and leans upon it carefully. You turn to look at her, and you see her seeing the last of the sunset: The dusk paints her face soft and shadowed, her expression as open as your palms, upturned in surrender.

When she looks at you, you look away, caught.

She waits a moment--perhaps to let you recover--before she asks, still so, so gently, "Forgive me, but you do not seem as surprised as I might have expected."

You lace your fingers together, comforted by the familiar slide of worn leather. You part your lips to let a held breath escape, and the words drip from your mouth like blood after a backhanded blow: "I have been disappointed this way before."

When she says nothing--and perhaps this is the true secret to her diplomatic finesse: knowing when to stay silent--you feel steadied, and you continue, although you have never told this story aloud of your own volition. "When I was very young, I uncovered corruption in the highest ranks of the Chantry." You clear your throat. "It's possible the plot involved a dragon... and Divine Beatrix. But that was not the part of the story that mattered, to me."

"What part mattered to you?"

You stare at the horizon, weighing the question. The darkening sky spreads over the lingering sunlight like a bruise.

Your silence must unnerve her, because she clears her throat and adds, "I know you do not like to talk about it."

"I prefer not to dwell on the past, it is true." Your throat and mouth feel as dry as the winter air. "I suppose I do not like to talk about it because I do not remember it as a victory. Others expect a tale of heroism, which I find I am not equipped to provide."

A light laugh, soft and airy as a summer breeze. "The way the tale is told, it's hard to believe there is another way to remember it." You glance at her, feeling strangely shy, but she is not laughing at you. She wears the same open look that spurred your confession in the first place.

You swallow hard and look away. "I had already pledged my life to the Chantry when I first glimpsed its true colors. I do not know the state of your faith," you add, your words awkward and halting, "but the discovery upset me, probably more than I realized at the time or would have cared to admit. I... At the time, I only cared to feel rage." A brief thought of Galyen prompts you to add, "For the most part."

Josephine hums. You glance over, check her expression, but she looks thoughtfully out at the gathering night; when she feels your gaze, she turns to you thoughtfully. Curiously. Her eyes flick from your eyes to your cheeks and you realize you are probably blushing. You turn instinctively to hide it from her, but her words make you turn back: "I can't imagine how hard that must have been."

Your mouth drops open a little; you search her face for insincerity, for mockery or derision, and find only compassion. She shrugs her shoulders. "Of course, I am Andrastian as well, but I have hardly dedicated myself to the Chantry for good or ill, as you have. It must have been very difficult to be disillusioned of the organization you served wholeheartedly."

"Yes." You breathe deeply, the air flavored with cold and dark. The stars have begun to prick holes in the sky, now a deep velvet. All traces of the sun have gone; together, you stand in the shadows of the world, clothed in shades of gray. You recall with uncharacteristic melancholy the certainty of your youth, when the world was white and black and red--before the shadows crept in.

After a long moment, Josephine murmurs, "And now the Seekers."

"Yes." Your breath is heavier now: a sigh. "A lifetime of lies, it seems." The words come softer, quieter, than usual. A shiver surprises you. Is it the cold or your cold thoughts?

"Not all lies, though. Not to you."

You say nothing, but you slide your eyes to her, skeptical.

Her fingers sneak out to pull her cloak closed against the wind. "You believed in the Seekers. If the Lord Seeker is truly gone... what is to stop you from changing the Order? From making it into the order you believed it to be?"

"There is more," you say, though it pains you to say it. You turn toward her, one hand dropping to your side, although you still find it difficult to look her in the eye while you dredge the swamp of your innermost feelings. You feel a slash of anger at yourself--and the Seekers, and perhaps the Maker himself--and you scowl as you say, "The Seekers have had a hand in some of the Chantry's vilest wrongs. And we have done nothing to right them. If anything, we have made them worse by our silence. And then we stood aside and did nothing as the Templar order disintegrated. I..."

The rage leaves you suddenly, like a breath knocked out by a blow to the gut. Josephine is looking at you, really looking at you, and it stops your thoughts abruptly. Your left arm loosens and you realize your hand had tightened into a fist.

A sharp wind cuts over the battlements and you both shiver.

"I--I apologize," you stammer. You hate yourself for stammering. "I have embarrassed myself quite terribly, I fear. I..."

"Please"--Josephine steps toward you and grasps your hand--"do not apologize. This is what friends do, you see? Listen to each other." Her eyes search yours: gentle and entreating. An invitation to be close to her.

"I feel angry, angry at the Seekers and at myself for believing them," you confess, your voice barely louder than the wind. "I should have known better. I should have seen. But I saw nothing." The bitterness chokes you, acrid and dry, and you swallow hard.

Josephine's brow furrows and her other hand lifts to touch your cheek. Her fingers are so cold you feel your heart shiver. Is that why it shivers? "Make them better," she says again, firm and yet uncertain, asking you. "You can make them what they should have been. I know you can."

"I am not so sure." Your anger rattles inside you. "I have never had any talent for... for building things. For creation." You search her eyes for answers, but cannot interpret what you see. "I am quite skilled at destruction, but... sometimes I wonder if that is all I have left to offer. The promise of destruction."

Josephine strokes her thumb against your cheek, so easily that you wonder whether she realizes she does it at all. You feel your pulse charge in your throat, so close to her wrist. You expect her to dole out blind reassurances, the sort so transparent they would offer you no comfort--but again, she proves far better than your meager expectations. "You built the Inquisition," she says. She watches your eyes closely.

Her scrutiny finds the weaknesses of your resolve, the way gentle fingertips find small dimples in a breastplate or grooves on a coin; as you answer, you feel your expression turn soft, almost questioning. "The Inquisition was not my creation. Leliana and I breathed new life into an old idea. Justinia even gave us the book, for direction."

Josephine's expression softens, too, but she looks almost sad as she drags her fingers down across your cheek, tracing the ridge of your jaw before her hand drops down and disappears into her cloak. "You sell yourself short, Lady Seeker," she says so quietly, you hardly hear it. As quiet as Leliana, reciting the Chant under her breath when she thinks she is alone. "And I think you know it."

You open your mouth to protest, but you find you cannot. You consider; she waits, patiently. "Perhaps if I knew it must be done," you say slowly. "Normally, the answers are so clear to me. I see what must be done, and I do it. But this..." You shake your head.

Josephine is still looking at you, patient and interested. A cold breeze prompts her to clutch her cloak tighter, but her eyes do not leave your face.

"When we left the fortress, I felt confusion. Betrayal. I wondered how deep the corruption went. After I read the Book..." You look away, now. The sky is dark and clear; once, you felt that same crisp clarity within you. Now, you feel dark and cold inside. "After I read the Book, I was furious. I wanted to dismantle the Order myself, with my own bare hands. But I cannot see what is right."

A quiet settles between you. You worry your candidness was unwise, and you find you cannot look at Josephine--until she breaks the silence, as gracefully as she breaks stubborn diplomats and troublesome accords. "Perhaps there is no right choice, in this."

"Or perhaps I am too close to see it." You draw a ragged breath. "And the College has mentioned my name and the election of the next Divine in the same breath."

A smile tweaks the corner of Josephine's lips. "You sound so excited at the prospect."

You laugh, rueful. "You know, it is not my preference to lead. You might have noticed I joined a military order at a young age, and made no efforts to climb the ranks."

Her mouth opens in surprise and she grins at you. "Yet you became Right Hand of the Divine?"

"Through no fault of my own." You feel yourself grinning back, somehow. You were upset a moment ago, weren't you? What spellcraft has she worked? "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You must be the only person who would describe it that way."

"Nevertheless, it's true," you insist.

She chuckles--laughing at you--but you find it doesn't bother you the way it usually does. "As you say," she allows, "but I submit that all of Thedas has benefited from your poor timing." Growing soft, sincere, she dips her head to look at you through her lashes. "You have done great work for the Inquisition. Without you, Corypheus would have had his way long ago. And... I am grateful it led to our meeting, as well."

You try to speak, but no sound escapes. You clear your throat. "I am grateful for that as well, my lady," you say, your voice strangely low. Your cheeks are warm from her compliments despite the chill of the night.

"You should have seen what my friends wrote me when I told them I had met the Hero of Orlais," she says, smiling easily now, teasing you. "They were beside themselves with jealousy."

You groan in automatic exasperation, and she laughs. "I appreciate your allowing me to disturb your solitude," she says then. "I hope you didn't think it too rude."

"I am glad you did," you realize aloud. "I worry I have said more than was truly proper. Generally I do not wish for others to feel they must comfort me. But I must admit you have made me feel better, when I wondered if that was possible at all."

"It was my pleasure," she says, smiling wider, and her hand sneaks out of her cloak to take hold of yours. "Would you care for some tea? I have enjoyed our conversation, but I admit it's become a bit cold for my taste."

You grasp her cold fingers and nod. "I would like that very much."

 


End file.
